


What Dreams May Come

by Lenore



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: Ghosts are real, and there are things that tie them to this world. Sometimes it's because they want to linger, and sometimes it's because they are trapped. Sometimes ghosts need the help of the living before they can be truly free.This is the story of Edith's quest to help the restless ghosts of Allerdale Hall find their peace at last.





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tibby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/gifts).



The first days after their escape from Allerdale Hall pass in a blur. Only a few snatches of memory burn brightly for Edith: the glint of weak winter sunlight on the cold iron of the pitchforks in their rescuers' hands, the sharp scents of camphor and carbolic when they reach the hospital, and the way Alan's fingers curl around hers when he wakes at last after a bout of fever from his wounds.

On the fifth day, a lady arrives looking for Edith, neat and well starched in the unrelenting drab of a widow's weeds. Edith herself will don black as soon as she has a thought to spare for clothes. The rules of mourning require it—and so does her heart.

"Lady Sharpe, I am Mrs. Carson," the lady announces, stripping off her gloves with a practical air. "My brother-in-law, Mr. Holly, sent me to look after you. He bids me tell you that Mr. Ferguson has taken a house for you and Dr. McMichael so that you may recuperate before the journey home. I am come to act as chaperon."

"That was thoughtful of Mr. Ferguson and Mr. Holly," Edith says.

Mrs. Carson nods and takes the chair on the opposite side of Alan's bed.

"You don't need to wait here with me if you'd rather—"

"I'll find ways to make myself useful," Mrs. Carson promises.

She proves good to her word. The nurses scurry to obey her demands for clean linen on Alan's bed and fresh bandages for his wounds. The doctor, who answered all of Edith's questions about Alan's condition with meaningless platitudes and a great deal of condescension, provides actually useful information when Mrs. Carson makes those same inquiries.

"Dr. McMichael’s wounds are healing nicely. He could be released as early as tomorrow, on the condition that he receive proper nursing care once home."

Mrs. Carson fixes a look on him that could freeze water on an August day.

"Which of course he will, no doubt!" the doctor hurries to add. "No doubt at all that he will receive the most expert of care. Indeed."

The look of near panic in the man's eyes as he flees gives Edith her first reason to smile since leaving Allerdale Hall.

In the morning, Alan has improved so well that the doctor does indeed release him. Two strong orderlies assist him into a hired carriage, up the stairs at the rented house, and straight to bed. The exertion from just this short journey leaves Alan ghastly pale and mute with exhaustion. He falls asleep at once.

Edith means to take up her place again at his bedside, but Mrs. Carson has other notions. "The worst is passed. All the young man needs now is a few weeks of rest and some of my good bone broth, you'll see. Leave it with me and take yourself off to bed. Best to keep up your strength."

For the past week, Edith has thought of little besides her worry for Alan, but she did not escape Allerdale Hall without scars of her own, both in mind and body. The doctor's purgatives and tonics have undone the worst of Lucille's poison, but it's only lately that the spasms in her belly have eased and she can manage food without fear of nausea. Her leg still pains her; she limps when she walks and must support her weight with the help of a cane. All at once, the circumstances of the past week seem to catch up with her, and she feels utterly drained.

"Go on now, dear." Mrs. Carson says kindly.

In Edith's bedroom, all is quiet and still. She changes into a nightdress, takes down her hair, and brushes it out. The sheets feel crisp and fresh when she slips between them. This is her last conscious thought before she falls deep asleep, sliding into the landscape of dreams.

Dust motes hang in the air, aglow in the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in the workshop's window. Edith picks her way slowly through the labyrinth of inventions, row after row of diversions lovingly crafted for Lucille's amusement. Should she have known? Edith can't help but wonder now. Was there some way to piece together all those stolen glances between brother and sister, the confidential silences that seemed to hold so much meaning, this carefully constructed world built for two here in the nursery? Should all those signs have led her to imagine the unimaginable?

Thomas bends over his workbench, intently focused on what he's building. He's not as she last saw him, not a pale vapor, but as solid and real as the living man. Edith moves closer to watch as he works and holds her breath when she sees what he's creating. It's a figure seated at a desk before a typewriter. Edith recognizes the cut of the gown. The figure is even wearing spectacles.

"You can watch the authoress diligently at work." Thomas's voice takes her by surprise. It feels so long since she last heard it, as if he is someone she only imagined in a dream.

His hands move deftly over gears and levers. The figure bends her head. Typewriter keys lift and fall. A scroll of paper unrolls from the machine.

"It was then that I fell in love with you," Thomas says, nearly in a whisper, a voice meant for sharing secrets. "Before I'd even learned your name. This lovely young girl with this glorious spark of life. So unlike anyone I'd ever met before. I keep wondering how different things might have been if only I'd recognized sooner what I felt. But how could I have? I'd never known a love that could withstand the light of day, that didn't have to creep in the dark."

Edith thrills to this profession of devotion, even now, despite everything. For a moment, she indulges the sweet ache of what might have been. But only for a moment.

"What would you have done differently, Thomas? Run away with me? Abandoned Lucille, your home, your inventions, all those privileges you were born to? Or would you have gone on as you always had before and wed Eunice instead? Then your wife might be lying enshrouded in the red clay at Allerdale Hall rather than standing before you alive."

Thomas doesn't try to deny it. "I deserve every bit of your censure and none of your generosity, and yet I must beg of you once again. I need your help most desperately."

"Tell me what you want of me, Thomas." She wonders if she is doomed to spend her life saying this same thing to different ghosts.

"Release me, Edith. You're the only who can."

The first, quiet strains of song float up from far below them. The piano. Lucille.

"Please," Thomas says, the word a hiss of urgency.

He reaches out his hand, beseeching. The music grows louder, angrier, and he disappears in a trail of smoke before his fingers can brush Edith's cheek.

* * *

"The _Abyssinia_ sails Monday week," Alan says, as he peruses the newspaper. "We might still be able to book passage."

Edith smiles indulgently. "We have time yet to plan our journey."

She is pleased to see all the progress he has made thanks to Mrs. Carson's exacting care, even if he is not yet well enough to undertake the transatlantic crossing. In less than a week's time, he has gone from sleeping most of the time to sitting up in bed to spending much of the day reclining on the sofa in his bedroom complaining that he is bored.

They have taken to dining together at a table set up next to the sofa. This morning, Alan's appetite shows signs of returning to its former heartiness. Edith knows that Mrs. Carson will be as pleased as she is to see this development.

A stack of newspapers sits at Alan's elbow. Edith saved them for him, knowing he would want to catch up on everything he missed while convalescing. He has been steadily making his way through them.

In the days after their escape, lurid headlines splashed across the front pages: _House of Horrors_ , _Bloodbath at Allerdale Hall_ , and _Tragedy Visits Sharpe Family Again_. A burly constable stationed at the hospital's entrance spared Edith from reporters' impertinent questions and the public's morbid curiosity. Thus far, no journalists have appeared on their doorstep. The fact that the house was taken in Mr. Ferguson's name has no doubt helped to shield their privacy, and too, Edith supposes, time simply marches on. There will always be new horrors, different tragedies. No story, however dramatic, lingers in the headlines for long.

Alan sets down the newspaper with a puzzled expression. "I haven't yet come across any mention of the other women."

Edith shakes her head. "And you won't. The police did find the bodies, hidden in the clay pits in the cellar, but the inspector in charge of the investigation thought it best to conceal that fact. Thomas and Lucille are both gone, beyond the reach of earthly justice, as he put it. He said there was no reason to blacken the family's name any further or to undermine the dignity of the baronetcy by making the full extent of Thomas and Lucille's crimes known."

"No reason other than justice," Alan says dryly.

Edith nods in agreement. The official narrative spread across the broadsheet pages has it that Lucille went mad, killed her brother, and attacked her sister-in-law, as well as a guest. There is no lie in any of that, and yet it is so very far from the truth. Edith struggles to reconcile herself with the way Thomas is portrayed, as if he is an innocent victim of his sister's lunacy. He made the decision every bit as much as Lucille did to sacrifice the lives of Pamela Upton, Margaret McDermott, and Enola Sciotti to further their own ambitions. In a right world, he would bear his fair share of public condemnation.

Alan reaches for Edith's hand. "Even if no one else ever knows the truth of what happened to these women, we do. We'll honor their lives by holding them in our memories."

"Yes, yes, we will," Edith says, squeezing his hand in return.

Somehow Alan always seems to understand her. She's never been more grateful for that than she is now.

* * *

In the afternoon, Alan grows tired, though he's loath to admit it, and Edith leaves him to rest. She turns her attention to her correspondence. There has been so much to attend to—writing instructions to Mr. Ferguson about canceling the sale of the house in Buffalo and retrieving the contents from the auction block, not to mention keeping an anxious Mrs. McMichael updated on the details of Alan's condition.

The study is a drafty room with water stains on the wallpaper from some past leak and the distinct smell of mold in the air, a scent that will cause Edith to shudder for the rest of her life after her sojourn at Allerdale Hall. She works in the sitting room instead, taking up the easy chair by the fire, making use of her lap desk to write her letters. She has nearly forgotten what it means to be well and truly warm—shivering was part of everyday life at the Hall. Now she luxuriates in the cheery glow from the hearth, pulling her shawl around her and settling deeper into the chair's rich leather.

It's not long before she slips sideways into sleep.

Into the past.

It takes her a moment to realize where she is. Allerdale Hall once more. The sitting area in the bedroom she shared with Thomas. He kneels in front of the great fireplace, coaxing the flames into greater brightness.

“There’s no solace quite like returning to one’s own home and hearth, is there?” he says.

He smiles, but there's a seriousness to his expression, his attention intently focused on her. Edith feels the intimacy of the moment of all over again, alone with a man who was not her father for the first time in her life. She remembers how she was filled with eagerness—and just a little fear—at the promise that they would have their wedding night at last. Not that she had any real notion what to expect of it. Her mother was gone, and her nearest female relation was a maiden great aunt with no actual experience to impart. She had simply patted Edith's hand and said, "Men have their needs, the nasty beasts, and wives must indulge them. You'll get used to it, my dear. A married woman must."

Thomas joins Edith on the settee, and though she knows it's only a dream, she can _feel_ him, the trim strength of his body, the warmth of his living breath against her cheek.

"Edith," he says, softly.

A tortured, rattling breath interrupts the stillness. Edith starts and looks around for the source of it, but there's nothing, no one.

_Find my body. Take it home._

The voice is barely a gasp. Pamela Upton. The wax recordings. The last wish of a dying woman.

Edith understands at last. "Some souls choose to stay behind, but others are trapped because something remains unresolved. A terrible crime that has yet to be solved." She pauses, thoughtfully. "Or a dying wish that's gone unfulfilled."

Thomas takes her hand and turns a beseeching look on her. "Please, Edith. Set it right, so we can all be free."

Edith wakes with a start. Mrs. Carson stands in the doorway, carrying the coffee service on a tray and eyeing her with some concern.

"I know what I have to do," Edith announces.

She scrambles to retrieve her lap desk and begins penning letters in a flurry. Mrs. Carson sets down the tray and unapologetically reads over Edith's shoulder.

"Ah," Mrs. Carson says, as Edith's intentions become clear to her.

Edith waits for some objection to her plan.

Instead, Mrs. Carson says, with her usual practicality, "Mr. Holly can see to the arrangements. I'll write to him. And of course, you'll need a traveling companion. I'll give the housekeeper instructions for looking after Dr. McMichael while we're away and start packing my things."

* * *

Edith receives prompt answers to her letters, and none of the replies brings any opposition to her wishes.

The answer from the Cumberland constabulary confirms the cold truth of Lucille's claims. _We have made inquiries, but have been unable to find that any of the deceased women have living relations who might wish to claim the remains, and so have referred the matter of burial to the local vicar. However, if her ladyship wishes to see to the arrangements personally, I dare say that no one will object._

The Sharpe family solicitor sounds relieved that there is someone willing to make decisions. _We have made every effort to trace the next in line to succeed to the baronetcy so that he may deem what is best to be done under these rather difficult circumstances, but as of yet, our efforts have been to no avail. The notoriety of Sir Thomas's passing and the financial straits faced by the estate hardly provide an inducement for any possible heirs to come forward. As Sir Thomas's widow, you have as much authority as anyone to see to the arrangements. I'm certain your ladyship will feel the same need for confidentiality that attends us all who know the details of this sad business._

The local vicar writes to praise Edith's Christian generosity and to give his blessing to the project. _To be frank, you save me the rather delicate task of trying to explain away the sudden appearance of three new grave markers in the churchyard, all bearing the name of Lady Sharpe. The village is rife with rumors already, and the feeling grows that Allerdale Hall is a cursed place and the occupants of that house cursed along with it. Were the full extent of the Sharpes' crimes to be publicly known—well, I believe we can agree that discretion is required above all else in such a case as this._

Mr. Holly writes in depth about logistical details and requests funds if Edith wishes to move forward with the plans. She immediately sends off the request to her banker in London.

The weather does them a service by turning unseasonably warm. After several days of sunshine, the roads to the Hall have dried, making it possible for wagons to get through. Edith is perennially amazed by what can be accomplished if one has the will and the resources to back it up, and she soon sees why her father turned to Mr. Holly when he needed anything done by stealth. Mr. Holly sends personal retainers to transport the remains—rather than hiring locals for the job—and no one in the village is any wiser about the three ladies' departure from the country than they were about their residence in it.

On the morning that Edith and Mrs. Carson are to depart themselves, Alan appears in the front hall, valise in hand, intent upon joining them for the journey.

"I should accompany you," he insists to Edith. "No doubt Mrs. Carson is imminently capable and I have always counted upon your own good judgment, but surely it would be safer if you were escorted by a man."

Edith takes a moment to consider. Certainly, having Alan accompany them would make her feel more comfortable, and he does seem so well recovered. He's now able to partake in the household's daily routine, joining them for meals in the dining room and spending evenings with them in the drawing room. However, he hasn't yet ventured very far from the house, with only brief strolls about the neighboring streets.

A journey encompassing three countries seems premature, to say the least.

"Alan, it is very good of you to be concerned for us, but it will be a whirlwind of trip. You will hardly know we're gone before we're back again. Mr. Holly has sent his men to see us safely to our destinations. I have every confidence that all will be well." Alan seems ready to protest, so she takes his hands in hers. "Please. Stay here and finish your recovery. When I get back, we can plan our journey to America." She says more softly, "We can go home."

Alan studies her and says at last, "Be careful."

She nods solemnly. If there is anything her recent experience has taught her, it is the importance of caution.

* * *

The first stop on the itinerary is Edinburgh. The fine weather continues, and the trains stay true to schedule. Edith and Mrs. Carson arrive at their destination in time for tea and to a profound gloom settled over the city, a suitable atmosphere for a funeral. They stay overnight at a hotel and make their way to Margaret McDermott's family church in the morning.

The vicar shakes hands with them. "I'm afraid I didn't know the late Lady Sharpe personally. I only took over the parish last year. However, I have often heard her spoken of as a kind lady and a good friend to those who were close to her. The members of the congregation were very sorry to hear of her loss. Tragedy seems to run in the family, I’m afraid. Scarlet fever took her parents and two sisters, you know, only about a year before she made the acquaintance of her future husband. A sad business, very sad, indeed."

The question of how to explain Margaret's death was given careful consideration. The police had not authorized them to make the details public, and according to Mr. Holly's intelligence, the tale of the bloody events at Allerdale Hall had not spread to newspapers beyond Cumberland. So they settled on a vague, mostly truthful account: Lady Sharpe passed away after a sudden illness, and upon the subsequent death of her husband, a record Lady Sharpe left behind came to light, communicating a wish to be brought home for burial. The vicar in Cumberland assisted with their plans by personally writing to his colleagues in the three parishes, explaining the matter, and enlisting their assistance with the burials.

“We are ready to begin the service,” the vicar tells them. “Allow me to escort you into the churchyard.”

Edith has wondered if they will be the only ones in attendance, but as they round the corner of the church, she sees a few other mourners gathered. Old friends and neighbors, she presumes.

It's a simple service. The vicar says a few prayers and commends the deceased's soul to God, and the coffin is lowered into the ground.

For just a moment, Edith feels a rush of cold, a telltale sign that a spirit is present, and then just as quickly, it’s gone.

"Goodbye, Margaret," she says under her breath.

The other attendees leave once the service is over, all except an elderly lady who comes forward to speak with them. "Vicar says you're the ones who arranged for Miss Margaret—or Lady Sharpe, I should say—to come home again, and I just wanted to thank ye. It was most kind."

"We could not let her final wish go unfulfilled," Edith tells her. "How did you know Lady Sharpe?"

"I was nanny to Miss Margaret and her sisters, and to her mother and her sisters before that. Miss Margaret was such a sweet child, always laughing and making up stories to amuse her sisters. How pleased we all were for her to fall in love after losing her family, poor lamb." The old lady shakes her sadly. "Twas not so long ago that she was getting married, her whole life ahead of her. Only goes to show that you never can know what lies ahead, can you?"

Edith agrees wholeheartedly. Certainly, Margaret could never have guessed what awaited her.

From Edinburgh, it's on to London. The overnight train delivers them the next morning, somewhat rumpled, but no worse for wear.

At Pamela Upton's church, the vicar invites them in for breakfast. "You must take the seats near the fire and warm yourselves. How weary you must be after your journey! I'll ring for more tea.

“Were you well acquainted with Lady Sharpe and her family,” Mrs. Carson inquires politely.

"I should say so,” the vicar answers. “I baptized Lady Sharpe when she was a babe and officiated at her wedding, too. Mr. Upton passed away some years ago, you know. A carriage accident. It was just Mrs. Upton and Pamela for a long time, and then we lost Mrs. Upton too. Not long after Pamela became engaged, actually. Mrs. Upton had been complaining of feeling poorly for years, and I'm afraid none of us took her quite in seriousness. When she passed so suddenly, it was a great shock. What a consolation it was for Pamela to have her fiancée to lean on. Such a loss that now Lord and Lady Sharpe are both gone as well!"

Edith freezes at the mention of Mrs. Upton's untimely demise. The pain of her father's loss hits her afresh, as she remembers the vicious glee Lucille took in recounting what she'd done. Edith can only wonder if Mrs. Upton was yet another of her victims.

The service passes quietly, with only the three of them in attendance. There is no rush of cold, no obvious sign that a spirit is present, but when the casket is lowered into the ground, Edith feels a great sensation of lightness, like a profound sigh of relief. She can only hope it means that Pamela Upton has found peace at last.

After another cup of tea with the vicar, Edith and Mrs. Carson press on, going back to Victoria station and onto a train bound for Dover, and from thence, aboard a ferry for Calais. They travel by train the rest of the way to Milan.

At the church, the priest welcomes them warmly, though he speaks not a word of English. Mrs. Carson brandishes her little pocket guide and gamely does her best to communicate in Italian.

A light rain falls as they gather at Enola's graveside. Mrs. Carson and Edith huddle beneath a shared umbrella while the priest intones the Latin phrases of the rite of committal. A movement catches Edith's attention. She spots a man some ways off, half hidden by a tree as if trying to go unseen, watching the mournful proceedings. He holds his hat in hand. Grief is etched into his expression.

The ghostly figure of Enola appears—paler and even less substantial than the last time Edith saw her. She reaches out a hand toward the grieving man, as if trying to comfort him. When the priest concludes the rite, she fades quietly away.

The man weeps openly, and Edith remembers the letter meant for Enola: _Mi cara Enola_. My dear Enola. It pierces Edith to think that this woman traveled so far, left behind everything she knew, encountered unimaginable horror, all in a quest for tenderness and affection that had always been hers for the taking.

The thought lingers with Edith all throughout their homeward journey. 

* * *

Returning to Cumberland seems to take far longer than leaving it—or perhaps Edith is simply impatient to be home again. On the long train ride from London to Cumberland, she sleeps much of the way, deeply weary, and Thomas comes to visit her dreams one last time. 

Edith finds herself in that snug little room at the trading post, with its rough-hewn walls and pleasant scent of cedar, so cozy and warm. She lies in Thomas's arms, just as she had that one night when they were truly man and wife. She remembers exactly how she felt then—safe and at ease for the first time since coming to Cumberland, wishing they could stay forever in this peaceful cocoon. 

Thomas whispers, "We should have done as you said and left while we could. Gone to London or Paris or anywhere else." There is an aching wistfulness in his voice. 

"Thomas." Edith strokes his arm where it's circled around here. Despite everything, she still loves him. She always will. 

As if he can hear her thoughts, "You released me, so let me return the favor, Edith. Don't look for me in the past. You may find me there, but you will never find happiness. And you deserve to be happy." 

There is the soft brush of a kiss to the back of her neck, and what might be "goodbye," and then he's gone. It feels different from the other times. Somehow she just knows: he truly is free, and he's not coming back. 

* * *

By the time they alight at the station in Cumberland, the sky is starting to look severe again. The weather won't hold for much longer. Edith's spirits lift at the prospect of seeing Alan again. But then, as she and Mrs. Carson head toward their hired carriage, her steps begin to slow. 

There is still one ghost of Allerdale Hall that she has not yet tried to release. 

She turns to Mrs. Carson, on impulse. "There's something else I need to do." 

The coachman stares as if she's lost her mind when she directs him to Allerdale Hall. Perhaps it is madness to return to a place she barely escaped with her life only weeks before, but she feels strongly that she must go there this one last time. 

The carriage makes one turn and then another, and at last it starts up the long drive. Edith can't help but remember the first time she made this journey, how alive she was to every detail, what great expectations she had for her life here. Now the house seems to loom like a dark, malevolent entity. Edith can't help but shiver. 

Mrs. Carson notices this naturally. "I'll go inside with you," she says, when the carriage comes to a stop. 

Edith shakes her head. This is something she needs to do alone. 

"I don't believe it will take long." 

Most likely, it is a fool's errand. Lucille never had any use for Edith when she was alive. There's no reason to suppose she will be any different in death. But Edith took Lucille’s life, however little choice Lucille left her, and she feels duty-bound to offer her help. 

The fetid and familiar smell of the house hits Edith as soon as she steps inside—the stomach-turning sweetness of rotting wood and spreading mold. She stops where she is, turns around, and closes her eyes, focusing, but no, there's no sense of Thomas here now. He's well and truly gone. 

Strains of that old lullaby spill out from the drawing room, all the more haunting now that Edith understands the history entwined with its notes. She finds Lucille seated at the piano. 

"Lucille," Edith says, trying to get her attention. "You don't have to stay behind. There's nothing to hold you her anymore. Thomas is gone, and he's not coming back. Do you understand? " 

No answer comes. 

"If I can do something to set you free, I will. If that's what you want." 

But Lucille doesn't seem to know that Edith is even there—or perhaps she simply doesn't care. 

Some ghosts hold onto an emotion, Edith knows. _The only love Thomas and I have ever known was from each other._ Perhaps when a person gives in to such a love, the kind that maims and burns and twists them inside out, when they've sacrificed everything to hold onto that love, their own sanity, their very soul, then they can never give up on it—even when that love is gone for good. 

Those ghosts never go away, Edith feels certain. There is no point in even trying. 

She turns without wasting another word and goes back down the hall, past the bloodstained tiles, leaving despair and ruin behind, emerging back into the fresh air and sunlight. 

Mrs. Carson gives Edith a deep, scrutinizing look as she settles back into the carriage. "Well, whatever happened in there, I can see it's done you good." 

"I believe it has, Mrs. Carson." 

In fact, she feels as if a great burden has been finally lifted.

Mrs. Carson nods in approval. "I'm glad, my dear. I know it may not seem like it right now, but you still have everything ahead of you." 

The carriage drives on, and Edith's thoughts turn to Thomas's advice: _Don't look to the past._ Perhaps she was naïve when she said that same thing to him. She understands now how your own history can haunt you. Letting go can be easier said than done. Still, there's nothing to be accomplished by looking back—she's certain of that. The future is where happiness awaits. 

The carriage seems to fly across the miles, and in no time at all, they are turning onto the lane where their house stands. Edith can hardly wait for the carriage to stop and for the coachman to hand her down. 

Alan is waiting for them on the porch. He smiles down at Edith as she starts up the stairs. It's a smile that says he's happy to see her and glad she got home safely and something else—something he's been trying to tell her since they were children. 

Edith has never wanted to listen before, but everything is different now. _She_ is different. With each step, she feels lighter and lighter, buoyed up by fresh hope. In this moment, she understands that Mrs. Carson was indeed right. 

There is still so much ahead of her. 


End file.
